


Vicious As Roman Rule

by frafeyrac



Series: Revolutionary School [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bahorel cares so much about his friends, Childhood Trauma, Dominant Enjolras, Enjolras has anger problems, Enjolras is pretty aggressive, Grammar School, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, Grantaire is so far gone on this boy even knowing he thinks about him in annoyance is enough, M/M, Minor Violence, Montparnasse is a good boyfriend, Oblivious Enjolras, Past Child Abuse, Submissive Grantaire, and Grantaire knows how to wind him up, genderqueer jehan, infact Enjolras is downright nasty, sigh these two are impossible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frafeyrac/pseuds/frafeyrac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Grantaire has two things he loves in life more than he loves cheap porn, cider and vodka.<br/>Scrap that, he has three if you include the Fierce Leader of the Student Council. The same one that he's been feuding with for nearly ten years. The same one that is very definitely <i>not</i> his dark haired, cherry-lipped boyfriend.</p>
  <p>A High School/Grammar School AU that involves Grantaire and Enjolras both being oblivious little shits and it takes a few very, very awkward boners, an in-school suspension and accidentally getting handcuffed together to fix.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Vicious As Roman Rule

**Author's Note:**

> so enjoy. not written for a while and I love this trope.
> 
> as normal, based on my experience of Northern Irish grammar school system - very, very different to that in the rest of the UK.
> 
> part one of Revolutionary School.

Grantaire’s used to hungover Mondays, and Tuesdays, and sometimes Wednesdays. So when it’s Thursday and there’s a pounding behind his temples he’s sure it’s not from the bottle of cider he drank last night. The fact that he’s only thrown up twice before lunch amazes him, it feels like there’s a hammer pounding against the inside of his skull. His head is on the cold table at the back of the canteen and Bahorel lets out a loud ‘Shh!’ at anyone who walks past. 

Grantaire lifts his head from his arms and his eyes rest on the center table, there’s a red blazer hung over the back of a chair, and Courfeyrac’s loud laughter seems to boom around the hall, bounce off the walls and make his head spin. Jehan’s watching Courfeyrac with a whistful expression, winding the end of their ginger plait round their fingers, eyes not leaving Courfeyrac’s lean figure as he swings backwards on a chair, face alight as he laughs at something Combeferre or their fierce leader has said. 

There’s a bang, Montparnasse drops his tray with his lunch and he obviously was trying to look cool, but the plastic lands with a bang and his plate of chips is catapulted over the table. Grantaire hisses at him as he wraps an arm round his waist, kisses the side of his head.

“What’s wrong baby?” He mutters, lips close to his ear and Grantaire appreciates him so much. Sometimes he looks at Montparnasse and he wonders what he did wrong to have such a dork for a boyfriend, but when he slides him a glass of water and rubs small circles into the stress point in his hand Grantaire just leans into his touch. Montparnasse keeps him upright as his head lolls onto his shoulder. Éponine rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. There’s something reassuring about seeing Grantaire happy and having someone steady and loving to rely on. 

The hum of the canteen stops, even Courfeyrac stops his laughing. Grantaire opens his eyes from where he was dozing on Montparnasse’s shoulder, only to see golden curls rise above everyone as the fierce leader rises to his feet.

“Here goes the fierce leader.” Jehan mutters under their breath, and Bahorel shushes them loudly, pointing at Grantaire. Grantaire smiles at the nickname, it’s a well-known fact that Enjolras has a wild temper. Grantaire nicknamed him after their last fight. Their dislike of each other is a well known feud. 

“Before you start your lunch, I’d like to ask you to think of those less fortunate.” Enjolras speaks and everyone listens, his voice fills the whole canteen and Grantaire rolls his eyes. Montparnasse presses a kiss to his neck and he smiles. He knows when to touch him at just the right times.

“It’s not very hard to be less fortunate than you, Enjolras.” Grantaire calls, he can’t help himself sometimes. Enjolras opens his mouth and Grantaire tries his hardest to find a way to shut it. Enjolras seems to freeze, shudder, and then he turns on Grantaire.

“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to be concerned in these matters, Grantaire. “

“Someone like me? Ah Enjolras, you belittle and dismiss the ideas of those you wish to help!” Grantaire didn’t remember rising to his feet, but he did. There’s complete silence, Enjolras standing in his red blazer and Grantaire wearing his non-regulation hoodie. 

“Grantaire, you are as privileged as the rest of us, the only person you need saving from is yourself, or did your mother not tell you that?” 

Grantaire felt his cheeks burn, his fists ball in a blind range. He’d last seen his mother when he was eight, after she’d left him for a week by himself so she could have a “weekend” in Paris with her then boyfriend and he’d been left starving and cold and the power went out and he didn’t know how to turn it back on. She’d come home and yelled at him, drunk already at ten in the morning. She’d screamed at him for not going to school while she was away (he had no money for the bus), for wasting the little food in the fridge (the power had gone out), for sleeping on the sofa (he was too scared to go upstairs) and then her boyfriend had started and he’d sworn and kicked him and then his mother had kissed her boyfriend and thrown Grantaire into the cupboard under the stairs. He didn’t know how long he was in there, it could have been hours or days really, but when he thought it was safe enough to leave he was on his own. Child services became involved two weeks later after he’d missed school and a tiny, starving boy had opened the door and cried because he thought he was in trouble for not doing what his mother wanted to do.

It was a low blow, even for Enjolras, even if he didn’t know.

“My mother might not have told me, but yours did right before she was screaming my name last night.”

Grantaire hates ‘your mother’ jokes with a passion, but he knows they enrage Enjolras so he won’t pass the opportunity up.

“You bastard.” Enjolras mutters, and the whole canteen has gone quiet. The look Grantaire is getting tells him he’s a dead man. Grantaire smirks, and the next thing he knows Enjolras is being held back by Courfeyrac and Combeferre. They’re muttering things that sound like ‘he’s not worth it’ and Grantaire tries his best not to laugh.

It’s always been like this, even when they were younger. When Grantaire was taken in by his foster parents – who adopted him a year later, but that’s irrelevant – he also got to experience life in the middle-classes. His new family, complete with three year old younger sister and three month old Labrador puppy, were the kindest, most respectable people Grantaire had ever met. They saw the scars from the burns and the marks on his arms and tutted loudly, they let him learn to love them and when he flinched they hugged him and told him it was alright. His new-father, a man who had always let Grantaire call him Michel, was a Swiss surgeon and his new-mother, Manon, owned a small cleaning company. Whilst they were not rich, not like Jehan and Enjolras and Combeferre, they had enough money to put Grantaire and his sister through private school. Which is where Grantaire had first met Enjolras. Grantaire had always stood out, he was a lot rougher than the other children. His manners weren’t as polished and he was never as put together. Their feud had started when Grantaire was eight, and Enjolras was seven. They had been told to do a drawing, and Enjolras had drawn his parents and their house and it was brilliant, bright colours and people who resembled people and a house that was more than a square and a triangle. It was only when Mme. Beaulieu had asked Grantaire what he was drawing, and he’d shown her a drawing he did in chalks of his ever-growing puppy (he’d named him Hercules after watching the Disney film) that the teacher had smiled, and told him he was a true artist. It was quite possibly Courfeyrac who had laughed, and turned to Enjolras and said ‘anything Enjolras does, Grantaire does better!’ and since then they had been at each other’s throats. After nearly ten years their feuding had neither got better or worse. 

Grantaire was always there, swinging lazily on his chair with Bahorel and Montparnasse and the others who had didn’t fit in with the rich boys in their clique of political correctness and social justice. Grantaire couldn’t help but notice how Enjolras grew handsome, when the puppy fat had left his face and he’d grown tall over one summer. 

Grantaire could remember the first time he really saw him, when he was going through the awkward fourteen to fifteen stage and Enjolras was there, all five foot nine of him (he’s grown at least four inches since then) in a golden glory and everyone had stared. 

Now, Enjolras stood with his eyes ablaze. Grantaire could feel the glare he was receiving. He shook his head, laughing. 

“Oh Enjolras, I’m surprised you haven’t asked one of your manservants to pull the stick out of your arse yet. I’m sure Combeferre would do it for you.”

“Didn’t your mother beat that sort of language out of you?” Enjolras spat the words, and there was complete silence that fell.

Grantaire lunged for him before anyone could grab him, scrambling over the table and raising his fist. He struck Enjolras square in the nose, and there was blood on his knuckles. Enjolras grabbed his shirt, throwing him to the floor and straddling him. Enjolras managed to punch Grantaire’s mouth, and he saw the spray of blood before he felt himself bite through his lip.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” He screamed, and Grantaire might have been a boxer, but Enjolras was a force of fire and he couldn’t throw him off. He reached up, yanking at his hair and landing a punch to his jaw. He flipped so Enjolras was on his back, landing punch after punch to his face and then Enjolras got the upper hand again and flipped them, pinning Grantaire’s hands above his head.

He panted, Enjolras above him like some bloodied angel, his whole body shaking and shit this was such a bad time for him to feel this turned on. Shit. Fuck. There was no doubt Enjolras could feel him, hard against his thigh. Grantaire fought to get his hands back, but Enjolras pinned him back down. He felt him grind into his hips, and whether it was accidental or not Grantaire tried his best not to tip his head back and bite down his moan into his already bloodied lip. He should not be turned on by being pinned down and straddled by Apollo himself. 

He let Enjolras think he’d won, then pulled up a hand and scratched down his face, it was enough to catch Enjolras off gaurd, and he hissed, baring his teeth and then hands pulled him away, and someone pulled Grantaire off the floor. 

There was spots of blood on the linoleum, and Grantaire was hard as a rock. 

The vice principal was pulling Enjolras away, another teacher gently helping Grantaire to his feet. His head was still pounding, he leant on the man’s arm while he directed him to the nurse. 

He could hear Montparnasse, asking if he could help, if he could go with him. He shook his head. _He can't see me like this_

“Can I, can I just go to the bathroom first? I want to wash my hands.” 

There was a sympathetic nod, Grantaire all but bolting into the closest men’s and diving into the cubicle. He locked the door behind him, hands fidgeting with his belt and the zip on his school trousers that just didn’t seem to come undone fast enough. His hand ghosted over his cock, palming himself through the cotton of his boxers. He slid them down his thighs, hand sliding over his cock as he bit down hard into the flesh of his arm. All he could picture was his angel, his Apollo, pinning him down and holding his wrists back, hips grinding down as their cocks were slick together, the heat in his belly as he moaned his name and pinned his wrists harder, told him to behave himself. No matter how hard he bit down on his arm, he couldn’t quite hide the noise he made when he came, the mangled sound of two names rolled into one.

“Grantaire? Is that you?”

He was so fucking screwed.

**Author's Note:**

> i have a [tumblr](http://courfeyrac.co.vu/)  
> so come and say hello
> 
> i have no beta so if you want to volunteer, please do!


End file.
